


Body of Angels

by PrinceNux



Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: AND IT JUST GETS WORSE, Here we go, I cried while writing this, M/M, Sam dies in the first few paragraphs, huh, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceNux/pseuds/PrinceNux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set some time in the dystopian future. Dean Winchester is all alone. Then he finds this weirdly beautiful Android, dressed like a friggin tax accountant, with the bluest of blue eyes, and no legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> This was an assignment for my Creative Writing class last year. The assignment, if I remember correctly, was that we had to write a short story about a dystopian world that may or may not have included robots.  
> Anyway, the only reason that I got away with turning in a literal fan-fic for a grade was because my teacher was/is also a big fan of Supernatural, and ships Destiel a wee bit.  
> I am pretty sure that I got a B+ on the assignment.

It was lonely without Sam. Waking up in that huge, empty, bunker, made Dean's ears ring and his head hurt. More often than not, he still cooked enough breakfast for two people. Then, the act of scraping the other plateful into the garbage, brought a lump to his throat, and tears to his eyes.

Even worse than the extra food, though, were the nights that seemed to stretch on for years. When Dean did finally manage to drink himself into unconsciousness, there was never the familiar feeling of warm and calloused hands on his bare shoulders, shaking him awake; rescuing him from the nightmares that held him captive.

Traipsing through the wreckage that was once a city, Dean finds himself suddenly doubled over, hit with a violent onslaught of memories. They scream through his sleep-deprived brain, chanting, "you couldn't save him you killed him it's your fault Sammy is dead and you're all alone you're pathetic you're a monster a killer!"

It was dark and freezing cold out, snowing sideways. A proper blizzard. The brother's had been trudging home from ransacking an abandoned store for what food they could find. Dean kept on losing track of Sam, a flash of dark hair here, red plaid there. Just flashes of the younger Winchester. Finally, Dean opened his mouth to call out for Sam. But, before the words could even form on his tongue, there was a flurry of darkness, bright eyes and razor sharp teeth. Sam yelled in pain and shock. The terrible sound ran through Dean from head to toe, stopping him short in his tracks when it was suddenly, savagely, cut off.

Shaking himself out of the momentary stupor, Dean sprang into action. Knives in both hands, he barrelled headfirst into the fray. Pulling the things off of Sam, wincing as their sharp teeth were pulled free from flesh, he dispatched them as quickly as he could. But, when the darkness had settled, blown away with the snow, he saw that it was too late.

Sam lay there on the ground, clothes in shreds, blood seeping through, tinging the snow a bright red. Dropping down next to him on bruised knees, Dean stared in horror at the deep slash where Sam's throat used to be. Turning his head to the side, he retched. But, since he was a Winchester, dammit, he regained his composure and turned back to his brother. Letting the tears run freely, and only because there was nobody else alive to see them, Dean pulled his brother's rapidly cooling body into his arms. Closing those caramel brown eyes for one last time, he wept. Tears mingled with blood from his own wounds, dripped down onto Sammy's slack face.

Dean sat there until he couldn't feel his fingers through his gloves, or his toes inside of his boots. He would have sat there until he froze, too, but, that damn pride that their father had drilled into him, made him get shakily to his feet. Dragging Sam's body up with him, he started the long trek back to the bunker.

Finally, after what seemed like years of slogging his way through the snow, the hidden door of the bunker loomed up out of the snow. Thanking a god that he no longer believed in, Dean pulled open the door, forced it shut behind him. Then, instead of slumping down against the wall like he really wanted to, he picked Sam up, like he used to be able to do when they were both younger, and Sam wasn't so freakishly tall, and stumbled down the hall to his brother's room.

Briefly considering just setting the whole room on fire, Dean looked down at Sam, laid out on the bed. Whispering that he would be back soon, he forced himself to leave, to go out into the snow one more time. After all, what is a fire without fuel?

Gathering enough wood for the funeral pyre took hours. By the time that he was done, Dean was shivering so hard, he could hardly carry the wood. With teeth chattering painfully in his skull, feeling like they may break, he entered the bunker, foregoing Sam's painfully quiet room, and making his slow way down to the basement.

Building the pyre, even by himself, took hardly any time at all. Though, not for Dean's trying to prolong the process. Finally, after staring at the final resting place of his brother for far too long, he forced himself back upstairs, and into what was no longer his younger brother's bedroom.

Once in the room, he made quick work of wrapping Sam up in his bedding. When that was done, he picked him up, cradling his head to his chest, and stumbled back downstairs. Dean could feel the coldness of Sam through the layers of blankets and clothing. Clenching his teeth, squaring his shoulders, he gently laid Sam down on top of the pyre.

Leaning down, his kissed the bundle where he assumed Sam's forehead was. Silently, he doused his little brother, and the wood underneath of him, with gasoline. Taking out a lighter, he flicked it into life, then tossed it on to the wood.

Fire engulfed Sam's body instantly, flames shooting up and licking like hungry tongues against the stone ceiling. Dean sat down against the far wall. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he sang under his breath, "Hey Jude." He sang that song, over and over, until there was nothing but ash on the floor, and his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.

A cold wind whips through the gutted city, slithering it's icy fingers up the jutting knobs of Dean's spine, pulls him out of the cruel clutch of memories. Fisting shaking hands in his short hair, Dean yells between gritted teeth, "you son of a bitch! I know I couldn't save him! But, I tried, dammit. I tried so hard."

Dean stays like this, hands in hair, bent over, until he hears a voice, calling out from the rapidly growing and gathering darkness. Quickly straightening up, dropping arms back down to his sides, Dean stands there quietly, waiting for the voice to come again. After waiting for a few moments, Dean is not disappointed.

"Excuse me? Hello?"

Dean almost responds. But, years of training from his father, not to be seen or heard, keeps his mouth shut. Four years ago, he would have run over to the voice. Now though, after what happened to Sammy, Dean finds himself wary of any noise that he can't immediately see where it is coming from.

Just as he turns to leave, halfway convinced it was only his paranoid imagination playing tricks on him, the voice comes again. Louder this time. As well as more pleading and scared.

"I can hear you. Please don't leave me here. I seem to have gotten myself into a rather unfortunate predicament, and require some assistance before the daylight is fully gone, and those things come back again."

Dean understands the fear in the voice all too well. The things that come out at night are no picnic, even if there's a group of people. Which, in Dean's case, there sure as hell isn't. Gritting his teeth, fingers itching over the hilts of his knives, he moves quietly over to the voice.

He follows the sound of the voice for a block, and is right about to take another step when it yells in alarm, "watch out! I'm right under you!"

Taking a step back, Dean looks down at the ground directly in front of his feet. Eyes the color of a robin's egg, stare fearfully up at him from under a mess of dark brown hair. Dean's eyes travel down from the piercing eyes, taking in the dorky tan trench coat, suit jacket, and backwards tie ensemble. His eyes go down farther, but when the stranger's legs end above the knee, he finds himself blinking rapidly and taking an involuntary step back.

Dean stands at what he reassures himself is a safe distance; because, really, how far can someone without legs get? Chastising himself for being a jerk, Dean forces himself to make eye contact with the man. He almost takes another step back when he realizes that the man has also been watching him.

Their eyes lock, green on blue, and blue on green. The colors of the earth from outer space. The strange man's eyes move down his own body, and Dean follows once he gets a sheepish glance from those baby blues. Together, they look at the man's severed legs. Dean prepares himself for the broken bones and blood, and is rather pleasantly surprised when he sees neither of those.

What he does see, however, is somehow more shocking than the gore that he was expecting to see. Where the torn flesh stops, there is just a mess of wires, dripping a blue liquid so clear it's almost translucent.

Bending down next to the man, Dean moves forward until their noses are almost touching, and demands, "what the hell are you?"

The man-looking thing stares back at him placidly, answering calmly, "my name is Castiel. I am a Medical Android."

Dean nods in agreement, because, hey, this "Castiel" is the most normal thing he has seen, let alone encountered, in four friggin years.

Concluding that the Android is not a threat, Dean regains his manners. Holding out a hand, an embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he says cheerfully, "hey, Castiel. My name's Dean Winchester."

Castiel takes Dean's hand in both of his, and Dean is genuinely surprised at how human the synthetic skin feels against his own.

They stay there like that, hand in hand, until Castiel says, in the same no-nonsense tone of voice, "Dean, it's getting rather dark out. And, I have nowhere to go. I mean, look at me, I can't even stand up!"

Cocking his head to the side, Dean says, "I guess I'll just have to help you out then, huh?"

Not waiting for a response, Dean picks Castiel up, with a panicked squeak from the Android, and shifts him around so that he is on his back. Castiel wraps his hands around Dean's shoulders, holding on tightly as they start to move.

After they walk for a little while in silence, Castiel looks down behind him, remarking, "Dean, you are incredibly bow-legged."

Shifting his grip on Castiel's thighs, he chuckles, "don't push your luck, Cas."

Castiel ponders on this new nickname, and is just deciding that he rather likes it, when Dean stops walking. Cas looks around wildly, waiting for the shadows to jump out at them, and sighs in relief when he notices the shiny black car in front of them. Reaching out, Dean opens the car door, but then, to Cas's shock, walks to the front to set him on the hood.

"Don't want you dripping all over Baby's seats," Dean says, ripping strips off his shirt to wrap around Cas's leaking stumps. Cas just nods, surprising himself and the human by wincing as the fabric connects with the exposed wires. Dean moves more slowly then, being careful with his touches. When he's done, he picks Cas up again, this time carrying him like one would an infant, and deposits him in the passenger seat.

Going around and climbing into the driver's seat, Dean starts the engine, letting out a contented sigh when the car purrs into life. They sit in silence again for a few beats, listening to the wheels of the Impala eating up the cracked road beneath them.

Cas senses the question in the air, even before Dean asks it.

"So," Dean starts conversationally, "I didn't know that Android's could feel things."

"We're not supposed to. But, I can. So, that's probably one of the reasons that I was decommissioned."

"Decommissioned?"

"Well, they tried. And, you have to give them credit for that."

"Who's "them"?"

"Ah. By them, I mean, the people who are responsible for my creation. They gave me life, albeit an artificial one. It went well for a few years. But, then, my life became too real for my creators to handle. I felt things. And not just physical sensations. But, sadness and fear and anger."

"They were afraid of you, then?"

"That would be too simple of an answer, Dean. They weren't afraid of me, per say. But of what they had created. The company I came from strictly manufactured Medical Androids. We were only supposed to treat wounds. I just went above and beyond my calling."

"Did they take your legs, too?"

"No. The shadows did. After I was taken from the home building, I was left out here. I don't know how to fight. When it got dark, and the shadows came for me, I didn't stand a chance. They ripped my legs off."

"Those friggin bastards. But, how long were you where they left you before I found you?"

Here, Cas lets out a sigh. Not a happy sigh. A sigh that seemed to hold a world's worth of weariness, and betrayal.

"Could have been days. Could have been months. Without clocks and regimens, time has no meaning to a being like me."

Dean lets out an angry huff of air, licking his lips in frustration, but doesn't say anything else.

Just when the silence is starting to grow stagnant, the car crunches up onto gravel, and Dean, gently, kills the engine. Getting out of the car, he goes around to the passenger side, unbuckles Cas -though, really, Cas could have done it himself, but being close to a heat that isn't man-made is really nice and comforting- scoops the Android up into his arms, and goes into the bunker.

Dean makes his way into the infirmary. After closing the door behind him, so as not to disturb a little brother that isn't there anymore, he busies himself with getting the proper supplies to patch up Cas; and then to begin work on a new pair of legs for the Android. The strangely humanesque Android. Dear god, Dean thinks to himself, have I really been this lonely for so long?

After he has stopped the dripping, after having Cas identify the weird liquid as "Grace," Dean gets to work on building his newfound acquaintance -friend, companion, buddy?- a functioning pair of legs.

Despite not being able to move off the metal table, Cas helps as much as he can; instructing Dean on what new parts go where, and how they attach to what leg there already is. They work like this, as a fully functioning unit, until Dean keeps on knocking into the table because he's literally falling asleep standing up.

"Dean," Cas says gently, "if my information is correct, humans need sleep. You are a human. I think that you should go to bed."

Dean nods in agreement, mumbling a quiet, "night, Cas," on his way out the door.

Cas sits on the table in silence, listening to his rescuer walking down the hall, swears that he is able to hear the bowlegged sway of his legs, and only starts rocking back and forth in shock and fear when he hears the bedroom door close.

Dammit, though, Cas makes it through at least half the night, before the darkness, quiet, fear, and overwhelming sense of aloneness, get to be way too much for even him to handle. His rocking gets more frantic, and, just when he is about to part chapped lips to call for Dean, he finds himself falling off the table, and onto the floor.

Right after Cas hits the hard cement floor of the infirmary, Dean's eyes fly open and he sits upright in bed. Even though he knows that it isn't possible, his first thought is, Sammy! That fantasy is quickly popped when he hears his name whimpered in that same familiar, gentle voice from earlier. So, he thinks to himself, getting out of bed and making his way down the darkened hallway, this whole day wasn't a dream, then.

Padding on bare feet into the dark room, Dean flicks on the light, illuminating Cas lying on his back on the floor. Letting out a huff of endearance, Dean goes over and scoops Cas up off the floor, and into his arms. Then, much to both their surprise, instead of setting him back up on the table, Dean leaves the infirmary, switching off the light behind them, and walks back down the hall to his bedroom.

Once Dean has Cas all settled into his bed, covers pulled up to his chin, he chuckles lightly at the sight, asking, "hey, Cas, want me to sing to you?"

When Cas just stares back at him from under those obscenely long eyelashes, masking way too blue eyes, he finds himself blushing, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck sheepishly.

"It's just that," he says quietly, "when my brother and I were little, and we weren't feeling well, or we had had a nightmare, our mom would sing us to sleep. Then, after mom had passed away, I did that for Sam. And, ya know, it really helped. Damn near put me to sleep, too."

Cas nods silently, but then blurts out, "Dean, where is your brother?"

This stops Dean in his tracks, coming back across the room, almost causing him to drop the weathered old guitar he was holding.

They stay like that, Cas in Dean's bed, Dean almost at the foot of his bed, until Dean finds the strength to clear his throat, answering, "my little brother, Sam, was killed by those horrible damn shadows, four years ago."

Again, Cas can't bring himself to do more but nod. Thankfully, though, this simple gesture seems to break the tension in the room. Dean comes and sits on the end of the bed, pulls his legs under him, and starts to strum the guitar.

The longer that he plays, the less his fingers and voice shake. Dean plays until he can feel the callouses on his fingers start to open again. Glancing over at his new -erm, friend? Yeah. That has a nice ring to it- he watches the way Cas's eyelids flutter peacefully. Getting up, he slowly moves back across the room, putting the guitar back in it's corner home, before going back to his bed, and crawling under the covers.

They go on like this for almost a year. Cas gets new legs. Dean helps him to walk again. Which basically just means giving him piggyback rides everywhere. Cas learns to cook, and Dean puts on a few pounds. They are both very glad when the hollows under his eyes lessen, and his jutting spine and hip bones go back to hide under their respectful skin.

Sure, Dean occasionally still has nightmares about Sam dying, and Cas has frequent sleepless nights when he is plagued with memories of how his creators treated him, but, they have each other. And, if Dean ends up wrapped up in Cas's arms, or if it's the other way around, then so be it. It's nice to have the touch of another. Even if it just fulfills the most basic of human needs.

Honestly, they could have gone on like this for as long as Dean had left, but, like good things so often do, they come to an end.

In the middle of the night, Cas wakes up to the smell of smoke, opens his eyes to a room full of an angry, bright orange haze. His sensitive ears pick up numerous explosions. His first thought is, of course, about Dean. He looks wildly around for his human friend, and is surprised to find that he's not even in the bunker anymore. He's outside, laying on his back, in the dew-soaked grass. The green blades sparkle in the bright moonlight, but are quickly trampled under Cas's panicked feet as he hurries back into the bunker.

Well, what's left of the bunker. Where the door once was, is just a gaping hole. Cas carefully maneuvers his way inside, then sprints down the hall to Dean's room. Upon not finding the human in his bedroom, he frantically yells, "Dean!"

A weak little rasp of a "Cas," leads him to Sam's bedroom. Once in the doorway, he squints through the dusty wreckage, letting out a pained gasp when he finds Dean, splayed out on the floor, clutching a small box to his chest.

Cas makes his way into the room. Dropping down next to Dean on the floor, he tenderly pats the other man down, almost jerking his hands away at all the broken bones he feels. Forcing himself to look Dean in the eyes, seeing the blood trickling from the corners of his mouth, out of his nose, and ears, Cas feels something that an Android surely shouldn't be able to feel.

Pulling Dean into his arms, cradling the man to his chest, he whispers into blood-soaked hair, "Dean, I can't fix this. It's just too much. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, Cas. Shhh. It's okay," Dean rasps, reaching up and cupping the side of Cas's face with a trembling and broken hand.

They sit like that in silence, until Dean asks, in a voice growing weaker by the second, "Cas, buddy, would you mind singing to me?"

"Of course, Dean," Cas whispers.

Clearing his throat, he sings the first song that Dean ever taught him.

Hey Jude floats over the wreckage of the room, flows over the broken man in his arms.

Cas sings and sings, until Dean's hand falls from his face. Cas keeps on singing until the light behind his eyes go out, and he slumps forward over Dean's body. 


End file.
